<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>its what you make of it by Soda_Pop</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23440111">its what you make of it</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soda_Pop/pseuds/Soda_Pop'>Soda_Pop</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Homestuck</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Love Confessions, M/M, One Shot, but just dont think about the fact these are homestuck characters, having a chat about death, sitting in the grass, very sweet and pretty</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 12:35:11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>490</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23440111</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soda_Pop/pseuds/Soda_Pop</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>i dont know any. single. thing about homestuck. i just know that there are characters with these names. (of course,  100% in character and perfectly aligns with the plot).</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dave Strider/John Egbert</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>17</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>its what you make of it</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>"How long do you want to live?"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It was meant to be a terrible question. The kind to make his skin crawl- and bumps scatter across his arms. "What kind of question is that?" Dave asked, looking ahead and holding his breath. His hands held onto the grass, and the blades were still wet from that morning's rain.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Think about it," Dave caught as John turned to look at him, from the corner of his eye. He refused to face him, still, as it was much better to look at the clouds. It was much easier to pretend he wasn't there at all. "Would you rather die at forty, before your old age caught up with you? Or eighty, ninety, a hundred? So you can live a full life, even if by the time you're near the end, you can't stand it anymore?"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Life was long- and it felt longer. There had to be something to keep you there. Looking at what years you had left, </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> was eternity. But there had to be a reason to live through that eternity. The question really was, 'do you have something that makes you want to live? How long will it last?"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"I don't know."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>John bristled, "That's not an answer."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He was right, Dave knew. It was evading a real response (to tell the truth was a commitment). But it was near impossible to speak, to say what he really wanted to say.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>John's hand was too close to his. He could feel the warmth of his palms just a few centimeters away. He knew what hands felt like (he had a pair himself), but that held nothing on John's. It was like someone reading a thousand books on art, but never seeing a painting. Never actually picking up a brush or a pencil or a clump of clay. Never tracing their fingers along the dried brushstrokes. That person wasn't an artist, that person was just a guy who read a lot of books.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"What if you didn't like my answer?" </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Dave matched his eyes with John's. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"That's not going to happen."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"And if it does?"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"I'll still be here."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Eternity was however long you made it. And it was a nasty, unbearable thing. It was in your hands, if you could find something (anything, even just a scrap) that makes each breath you take have potential. It was in your hands to find something and to make eternity something of worth, instead of a tiresome walk (and those with tired legs end up sitting down).</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Life felt long to Dave. As long as he and John still sat down next to each other, life would be long. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>(His hand was laying next to eternity- and it would be devastating to scare it off. 'I'll still be here', he said. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad to believe him.)</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"As long as you're here," Dave traced his fingers over John's, "Forever."</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>april fools.</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>